He'd felt it too. Whatever had happened between them, whatever that connection was, he'd felt it and fled rather than face it. The realization should have made her angry. Instead, it left her more confused than before. If he'd felt it and still left, what did that mean? That it scared him? That he rejected it? That he was punishing her for making him feel anything at all?
She dried herself with mechanical movements, then approached the dress again. The fabric whispered against her skin as she pulled it on, the metal adornments settling cold against her ribs. It fit perfectly, of course. Everything he chose for her always did, as if he knew her body better than she did.
The mirror showed her transformed. The emerald made her skin glow pearl-pale, made the marks on her throat look deliberate rather than desperate. The metalwork emphasized her waist, the draping of the skirt suggested curves without revealing them. She looked like something from a legend, dangerous and beautiful and utterly his.
But also, somehow, herself. Not broken into his shape but transformed into something that was both Briar and his. The distinction made her stomach flutter with something that wasn't quite fear.
A knock at the door interrupted her spiral of thoughts.
"Come," she said, surprised her voice sounded steady.
A brownie entered with a breakfast tray, its large eyes taking in everything, the bed, her dressed state, the way she held herself carefully to minimize the ache between her thighs.
"His grace says you're to eat," it said in its whispery voice. "Then attend him in the blue sitting room within the hour."
"For what?"
"Lessons, mistress."
The word made her freeze. Mistress. Not girl, not human, not prisoner. Mistress. As if her status had changed. As if last night had elevated her from captive to... what?
The brownie was already backing toward the door.
"Wait—" But it vanished before she could formulate a question.
She ate quickly, barely tasting the honey cakes and fruit. The tea was perfect, exactly how she liked it, which meant he'd been paying attention. The thought made her chest tight with emotion she couldn't name.
Forty minutes later, she stood outside the blue sitting room, hand raised to knock. Through the door, she could feel him, that warmth pulling toward whatever its counterpart was in him. She wondered if he felt her approach, if he was preparing his cold mask even now.
She knocked.
"Enter."
His voice betrayed nothing. She opened the door to find him standing by the window, back to her, hands clasped behind him. He wore his usual black, but she noticed tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.
"You're late," he said without turning.
The casual dismissal stung more than it should have. After what they'd shared, after the way he'd come apart in her arms, this careful distance felt like cruelty of a different kind.
"The brownie only just—"
"I don't want excuses." He turned finally, and his expression was carved from winter itself. But his eyes—his eyes flickered when they took in the dress, the way it transformed her, the marks visible above the neckline. "We have work to do."
"Work," she repeated, the word bitter on her tongue.
"You're to appear in court again. You need to learn how to move without broadcasting vulnerability with every breath."
The warmth pulsed between them, and she saw his jaw tighten. He felt it. He definitely felt it.
"Is that what this is about?" She gestured to the dress. "Display?"
"What else would it be about?" His tone was flat, controlled, but she caught something underneath. A tremor of uncertainty that matched her own.
"You left," she said quietly. She didn’t need to explain what she meant, he knew, she could tell by the way his shoulders tensed.
"I had matters to attend to."
"The bed was still warm."
